The Rider Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

High dusk at noon,
There is a child born under the moon,
she cradles the saddle of satin white,
Free of reins that stride in hooves.

Winds galore beneath her feet,
Comb her mane from poll to withers,
Her leather bridle rests affirm,
Upon her forelock that frees her bit.

Among the mares she is the fairest,
Glistening bright about the prairie,
Grazing with love she hovers the fields,
In search of her fallen rider.